


Lock Picking and Other Skills

by Sed



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Sex, Dare, M/M, Oral Sex, Stripping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2021-01-03 15:50:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21182009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sed/pseuds/Sed
Summary: Flynn gets to know Stormwind's Spymaster a little better than he'd anticipated.





	Lock Picking and Other Skills

**Author's Note:**

> The first few lines (dialogue only) are from the Alliance war campaign quest _The Treasury Heist_.

“How’s it going back there?” Flynn asked, half-glancing over his shoulder as he watched the Alliance champion deal with the rather large threat up ahead. Admirable, that. “Almost done?”

“It’s a complicated mechanism. Disabling it requires patience and finesse.” Shaw didn’t sound as though he had a great deal of patience, though. In fact, from the moment they’d departed, bound for this frankly inadvisable mission into the grand vault of Dazar’alor, he’d sounded positively _snippy_.

Flynn decided it was high time the spymaster showed some appreciation for what Flynn was putting on the line—namely, himself. He supposed the poor sod up ahead was doing alright as well. “Finesse a bit faster!” he called out. Then, abruptly thinking better of it, he added, “You need any help? Tips?” He paused, waiting for an answer he knew would never come. Proud and stubborn, that man. “I’ve disabled a few traps before.”

Defying all odds—the sort of odds Flynn might normally have eschewed, anyway—he heard a light chuckle accompany Shaw’s answering taunt. “Are a few mystical masks too much for the infamous Flynn Fairwind?” he asked.

And that was it. That was the moment Flynn decided he quite _liked_ the good spymaster.

Of course, they had a mission to complete, and, assuming they survived, he was almost certain any attempt to invade _Shaw’s_ vault would end with a great deal more pain. And possibly some life-altering injuries. Not even the good kind.

But they had survived, somehow. No doubt thanks to that put-upon champion Wyrmbane and Shaw were always tossing about all over the map. He had half a mind to ask why such an accomplished adventurer would put up with so many menial responsibilities. Then he considered that asking such questions might end in him accompanying said hero elsewhere, and he couldn’t have that. Too much to do.

Like drinking. As he currently was.

“A round for the house!” he called out, raising his glass and ignoring that it sloshed onto the floor by way of his sleeve. He turned back to the barkeep and drunkenly muttered, “Water it down a tad, if you wouldn’t mind.”

No one said a celebration ought to leave a man with empty pockets, after all.

“To our hero!” he cheered. The rest of the patrons, drunks and near-drunks, those tipsy and only just starting to feel the effects, lowered their voices just enough to hear him. “And to me!” Clearing his throat, he added, “And to that dried out murloc Shaw, I suppose.”

No one in the tavern could know the details of their exploits, of course; the mission had been top secret. All very exciting. But this lot were all so drunk they’d cheer at anything, and he rather thought the hero at his side needed a bit of a morale boost.

Shaw had refused his invitation to grab a pint following their successful venture. Flynn couldn’t say he was surprised, but he _would_ say he was more than a little put out by the brush off he’d received when he asked. Who was Shaw, anyway?! The man was laced so tight it was a wonder he could breathe—literally! Flynn’s gaze had lingered on those frankly unnecessary and quite numerous leather cords long enough to know how very snugly that armor must fit the spy’s lean figure. He could only imagine how long it would take to pry him out of the damned thing. Not that he wasn’t game to give it a whirl. Or give Shaw a whirl, for that matter.

His thoughts wandered, but eventually circled back to what he felt was a well-earned and appropriate amount of indignation over the spymaster’s apparent disinterest. So Flynn hadn’t outright told the man he wanted to play a few rounds of corking-the-barrel. What did it matter? He thought he’d made his interest quite clear, and anyway, Shaw was a _spy_. Spies were supposed to like all that misdirection and subterfuge. Given how utterly committed to his job the man seemed to be, he’d honestly thought Shaw might need a conspiracy just to have an excuse to unlace his trousers.

Probably slept in that ridiculous, skin-tight getup, too.

Flynn idly wondered what the leather would taste like if he licked it.

“I reckon that’s enough for me,” he announced, hopping down off the stool. “You alright to find your way back to the _Redemption_, friend?” he asked the champion. “You’re asleep. Well, I suppose that settles the matter rather neatly.”

He was only two steps to the door when an all-too-familiar figure appeared in the doorway, casting his uptight shadow across the floor in the light of the moons.

Never one to pass up an opportunity to put his foot in his mouth, Flynn smiled and said, “Master Shaw! Didn’t expect to see you here, I thought you might have a rule against this sort of thing.”

“And what sort of _thing_ might that be?” Shaw asked. He gestured wordlessly to the barkeep, and a glass of pale wine was produced for him at once. Trust the man to have a standing order in a tavern he’d never been to before.

Flynn crossed his arms and smirked. “Fun,” he said flatly.

That earned him an arched copper brow. “I’m here, aren’t I? Perhaps you shouldn’t assume so much, Captain. You’re bound to be wrong more often than not.”

Oh, now he was just being _cheeky_. Flynn might have been offended if sarcasm didn’t suit the man so well. Evidently there was more than just a startlingly lithe collection of muscles and frowns under all that leather.

Well, he’d gone after much riskier rewards. “Assuming, am I?” he asked. He cast about for someone drunk enough to take an interest in what was unfolding at the bar. He needed a bit of an audience for this. “What’s say you put your mouth where your money is, Shaw?”

“I believe it’s the other way around.”

“I believe there are any number of places you could put your mouth, and that’s just one of them.”

Shaw had the sense to look away, but not before Flynn caught the hint of a blush staining his cheeks above that frankly ridiculous and charming mustache. Excellent. “A wager,” Flynn continued.

“A wager.” Not a question, and yet still undeniably demanding an answer.

“Five tasks. Each one _exceedingly_ fun. Possibly for me more than you. We’ll see how long you last.” He leaned in so close he could smell the sweet scent of wine on Shaw’s breath. “My money’s on you balking at three, assuming you’re game at all.”

They had gathered a meager crowd by that point, and the onlookers, some swaying where they stood, were only too happy to egg on the challenge. Flynn had hoped that making a public spectacle of it might strike a fire under Shaw’s pride. He knew the man had it in spades; he could see it in those bright green eyes every time the spymaster put his mind to even the simplest task.

“Trying to bait me, Captain Fairwind?” Shaw took another sip and pushed the glass away. “Very well. You proved yourself today, so I suppose you’ve earned a bit of indulgence.” He turned on his stool and crossed his arms over his chest. The leather armor creaked slightly. “Name your first task.”

A muted sound of appreciation rippled through the curious onlookers, and Flynn smirked. It really was too easy sometimes. Like riling up a hydra.

Alright, that took no effort at all, actually. Most of the time just _looking_ at them seemed to do it.

“Line them up, if you will,” he said to the barkeep, his gaze still fixed on Shaw. “Let’s start off simple.” His smirk spread into a grin. “We’ll make it… seven. I believe you like that number, don’t you?”

The barkeep reached below the counter to retrieve seven small, mismatched glasses. While he lined them up, Flynn started listing off all of his favorite liquors, and some he’d only been meaning to try. He took special care to avoid those that would combine poorly. Wouldn’t do to have the spymaster sicking up all over the place before they even made it to task number five. Assuming he could even _get_ sick. Flynn had his doubts.

“This is your idea of a challenge?” Shaw asked. “Making me drink?” He indicated his abandoned glass of wine. “I’m already drinking, Fairwind.”

“Ah, but you’re not drinking _these_. And certainly not one after another.” He gestured to the now-filled glasses with a flourish. “Which you’ll be doing in, oh, let’s say ten seconds.”

Shaw’s eyes narrowed and he frowned. Deeply. “You want me to drink all of that in ten seconds?”

“Hey, it’s a lot longer than you think. Try sneaking through Freehold with a magical glamour that’s about to fail, tell me you wouldn’t want an extra ten seconds.”

“I hardly think poisoning me would be fun even for you.”

Flynn wagged a finger at him. “Ah-ah, don’t assume, Spymaster. But in this case you are entirely correct. I’ve no desire to cause you any harm. If you don’t think you can handle a few shots of something stronger than _wine_, well…”

He let the crowd finish for him; they booed Shaw’s perceived reluctance, calling him out for refusing already when it was only the first challenge.

Flynn could see the gears turning behind the spymaster’s eyes. It was almost as if Shaw was fighting himself, battling that tight-laced part of him that wanted nothing more than to storm out and stomp back aboard the _Wind’s Redemption_. But there was an intriguing gleam there, too. He didn’t _want_ to back down. Not so soon, at any rate. That hefty sense of pride was keeping him in his seat.

Eyes locked with Flynn’s, Shaw reached for the first glass.

“Ten seconds!” Flynn shouted.

And what a wild ten seconds it was. Shaw must’ve been a fish in a past life, Flynn was sure of it. He slammed the last one down on the bar just as the count hit nine.

“How’s that feel?” Flynn asked. He was genuinely curious; he hadn’t the first clue how well the spymaster could handle his drink. Part of him hoped the man might live up to his reputation in this case, or else it would render the next challenge considerably more difficult. Not impossible, mind. Just… somewhat risky.

Shaw shook his head a little more than necessary as he wiped his mouth with the back of his arm. “Fine,” he said. He put a hand to his stomach and grimaced before reaching for his wine.

“Sick?”

“I haven’t been sick since I was ten,” Shaw muttered into the glass. It was so quiet that Flynn could barely hear what he’d said.

So, he wasn’t sick, but he was going to be good and sloshed for a time. That was fine; so long as he wasn’t too drunk to stand, the game could continue. Flynn cleared his throat and announced, “Your next task is to dance.”

Shaw looked around. His eyes narrowed, and for a few seconds Flynn thought they might close entirely. “Dance? There’s no music, Fairwind.”

Almost as if on cue, someone struck up a lively fiddle. Bless the rabble of Boralus. He arched a brow. “You were saying?”

It was clear that some of the good spymaster’s inhibitions had taken a fairly critical hit, because he lifted his arms and let them slap his sides in an over-exaggerated shrug. “How?”

“Surely you know how to dance,” Flynn scoffed. When Shaw only pressed his lips into a flat line, he asked, “What sort of business do they get up to in that big white keep?”

“I’m sure I don’t know.”

Flynn was sure he knew _exactly_ what they did, in fact, down to the way the king liked his trousers pressed, but he wasn’t about to argue the point now. Not when a somewhat-drunk Shaw was swaying before him. “Fine,” he said. He held out a hand. “I’ll lead.”

That drew some admittedly ribald commentary from the crowd. Flynn thought he saw a wink or two tossed in his direction. Well, they had the right idea, anyway.

But Shaw wasn’t reaching out to take the offered hand. He was staring at Flynn, looking for all the world like a horse that hadn’t yet been broken, and knew better than to let one more rider try. That was interesting. Flynn wondered what soothing words he might whisper in the spymaster’s ear to earn his trust so he could give it a go. Then he decided that wasn’t at all the sort of thoughts he needed in his head at the moment, and he ordered himself another drink. Something strong. No need for Shaw to be the only one in his cups tonight.

“That should count as two,” Shaw insisted.

Flynn couldn’t help but laugh. “How do you figure that?”

Shaw held up two fingers. “Dance, and,” he said, enunciating, “_dance with you_.”

A round of jeers met his protest, and he frowned. If it happened too many times Flynn was sure someone would be going home with a target on their back. “I hardly think it’s such an imposition to dance with me, Master Shaw,” he said.

He could see that sharp wit working its way up to the tip of Shaw’s tongue. _You’re an imposition,_ he wanted to say. And he wasn’t wrong, of course, but some part of him, a part no doubt swimming through a fair amount of alcohol to reach the surface, must have recognized that it was childish.

Instead, Shaw made a sound suspiciously like “_Fine,_” and thrust his hand at Flynn’s.

After that open display of poor sportsmanship it was almost a pleasure to pull him forward, jerking their chests together so hard that it almost knocked the wind from Flynn’s lungs. He recovered and called over his shoulder, “Something lively!” to the band—such as it was.

To his surprise, someone else joined in at the piano. He _loved_ Boralus.

Spinning a man who had just tossed back seven drinks and one half-glass of wine probably wasn’t the wisest maneuver, but _by the Light_ it was fun. And that was the whole point, wasn’t it? To see if Shaw could loosen up and have a good time. Flynn whirled them around the open floor of the tavern, dipping Shaw low enough that his own long hair brushed the floorboards. He hopped from one foot to the other through a move he’d never been sure he learned correctly, then looped the spymaster under his arm. They ended up front to back, one of Shaw’s own arms an unwitting accessory to the brief entanglement. When he reversed the maneuver it brought Shaw back again, and for a second—less than a second, really—he thought he saw a smile. No more than a quirk of that blasted mouth.

He fell a little harder.

And then he really fell—hard. The heel of his boot caught a board and he went down like a bad pint of grog, hitting the floor in a heap of long coat and surprisingly supple leather. So _that_ was what it felt like. Very nice.

Shaw cursed several times and pushed himself up from the floor in a huff. The music had stopped, but the other patrons were still caught up in the merriment. Some of it involved laughing at the pirate on the floor and the spy looming dangerously above him. Shaw seemed to take exception to that. More than he might have without a few drinks in him, Flynn wagered.

“Is this your idea of fun, Fairwind?” he demanded. He was breathing hard, and Flynn rather liked the thought that it wasn’t only on account of the dance, or the fall.

Flynn stood and divested himself of his coat, tossing it over an empty stool. Right beside the still-sleeping Alliance champion, as it happened. Poor fool really needed a break. “I rather doubt you could handle my idea of fun, Master Shaw.” He gave the spymaster a somewhat suggestive once-over and smirked. “Especially if you’re winded after only one tumble.”

“You expect me to believe you’re going easy on me?”

“Expect you to believe it?” Flynn shook his head. “But if you recall, I didn’t expect you to make it past the next challenge, either.”

Shaw crossed his arms. What little skin was visible between the segments of his armor showed muscles tensed and straining beneath a fine dusting of coppery hair. Flynn motioned for another drink.

“What’s next?” Shaw said. His voice was firm, certain, and showed no evidence of just how much alcohol was surely pumping through his veins at that moment. Only the slight sinking of his eyelids gave that away.

Flynn truly, _truly_ wished he could have kept a straight face as he narrowed his own eyes and said, “Strip.”

A ship’s bell from the harbor was the only sound that carried into the tavern for one breathless moment. Even the drunken patrons seemed poised on the edge of their seats—figuratively speaking, of course. In most cases.

Shaw’s eyes had gone wide. His mouth fell open. Flynn could almost see the words _I think not_ building in his throat. He waited, but they never came.

Instead, to his utter astonishment, Shaw unfolded his arms and reached for one side of his chest. He plucked at the heavy leather lacing until the knot came loose, and then started on the buckles that held his shoulderguards in place.

On the other side of the room Flynn was groping blindly for his drink. He could not have torn his eyes from the scene before him if a host of naga had come slithering in to ask for a glass of water.

Just _how_ Shaw managed to strip himself of the armor that covered his torso and most of his arms was mystery enough, but how he’d done it so _quickly_ was something else entirely. It was worthy of study, really. Something to be debated by scholars and written about in books. Before Flynn had finished swallowing back his ale, Shaw was bare to the waist.

He was not what Flynn had expected. Not that he’d expected much—rather, he hadn’t really expected anything at all. From the first moment fate and a fair helping of wartime desperation had thrust them together, Flynn’s thoughts about the spymaster had lingered decidedly… lower. In nearly every sense. All the ones that he enjoyed most, anyway.

But if he’d given the spymaster any thought at all above the waist, it was not the sort that suggested smooth, pale skin, and a night sky’s worth of freckles. He supposed he’d expected a history written in scars, but there were hardly any at all. Well, that made a great deal of sense, didn’t it? After all, a spy who got himself stabbed all the time couldn’t be very good at spying.

And Shaw was… quite a spy. Quite _something_, really.

Flynn had thought him lean, but he hadn’t truly reckoned _how_ well-honed and tapered those muscles might be. He looked more like a dancer than a man accustomed to waiting out targets crouched in small, dark spaces. Funny that he couldn’t dance.

It took him too long to register the look Shaw was giving him. Not quite a glare, but not a leer, either. It was steeped in challenge, whatever it was. He clearly _wanted_ Flynn to say something. To make some silly quip about his naked chest and arms. And oh, did he know his mark if he thought it was next to impossible for Flynn to keep his mouth shut at that particular moment.

“Shall I continue?” the spymaster asked. The other patrons abruptly took up his side of the matter—the traitors. Their quiet snickers and muttered comments were no longer aimed at the spy who stood with his back to them, but the pirate with an empty glass in his hand.

He could say yes. After all, Shaw still had his dignity underneath all that leather. The man could shuck his pants and boots and still—

Flynn hesitated. “Do you… underneath…?” he asked.

Shaw did smile then. The sort of smile that likely made other men worry. He shook his head slowly.

Oh.

Flynn cleared his throat. “Best not to, then,” he said. “We’ll consider the matter of your third task settled.” That couldn’t be comfortable _at all_. Could it?

“I believe that means I’ve won,” Shaw said.

Flynn was back in the game in seconds. Tempting abdominal muscles be damned. “Oh no, my dear Master Shaw.” He shook his head. “Your victory was set at five.”

“But _you_ said I wouldn’t make it through the third.”

“And I was wrong. I’m big enough to concede that much.” He stopped to let the innuendo sink in. True to form, Shaw didn’t take the bait. “Really?” He shrugged. “Anyway, you’ve still got to prove you can do all five. Besting me isn’t enough.”

Just like that, the fickle onlookers were back on his side. Bless them.

Shaw was far too sober for Flynn’s liking. He wasn’t swaying at all anymore, in fact. Had he _willed_ himself sober? It seemed like something he might be able to do.

The sudden urge to end this charade and force the spymaster to concede overcame him then, and he wondered at his own temper that he could be so easily goaded. Then again, if anyone could find their way under the carefully crafted layers of Flynn Fairwind, it was a surly spy with a knack for infiltration and skill at disabling complex traps.

“Very well,” Shaw said. He announced it as though he had decided to grant some lofty favor. That’s what spending too much time in a castle would do to you. “The fourth task?”

Flynn couldn’t say where the inspiration came from; he couldn’t say he wanted to spend too much time examining his motives, either, assuming he had any (which he most certainly did). He only knew that it seemed as though someone else spoke the words for him when he opened his mouth and said, “Kiss me.”

Shaw’s smile dropped. His eyes widened, but not so much that he seemed shocked this time. It was something else, and yet again Flynn realized he couldn’t tell one look apart from another. Shaw was a mystery to him even when he was at his most unguarded, half-drunk and equally naked, standing in the middle of a seedy Boralus tavern.

That mystery was precisely why Flynn gasped and his own eyes flew wide when Shaw crossed the short distance between them, slipped a hand into the hair at the nape of Flynn’s neck, and kissed him.

Distantly he knew the kiss had been met with a roar of encouragement and one or two fists pounding on tabletops around the room. He could practically feel the force of the sound as it bombarded him from all sides, but he didn’t _hear_ it. Not really. All he heard was the blood in his ears and the short bursts of breath through his nose as he hovered there in the space between Shaw’s arms. His own hands had lifted to uselessly grasp the spymaster’s bare skin, and he flexed his fingers experimentally, feeling the heat of the body pressed against his.

Shaw tasted like the wine earlier had smelled. That seemed odd.

Realizing that, Flynn abruptly understood that he could only taste Shaw at all because the spymaster’s tongue was _in his mouth_. His other hand was around Flynn’s waist, holding him close. It was… lovely, really.

In the middle of a tavern.

Flynn made a sound he thought should pass for a protest and pushed at Shaw’s chest with both hands. They parted easily, much more easily than he thought a man like Shaw might be moved if he was happy where he was, and Flynn stepped back.

“Well,” he said. He cleared his throat. “That was—” he coughed again, “—enlightening. Seems your idea of fun isn’t quite so…”

After a few seconds he gave up. There were no words he could pull from his memory to end that sentence. No one seemed to care, anyway.

Shaw was watching him curiously. Flynn turned back to the bar to hide what he was sure must be a furious blush. His skin was a bit more weathered and tanned than the fair spymaster’s, but that wouldn’t do him any good under such circumstances.

“Another song,” he heard Shaw call out behind him. From the sound of it he was speaking directly to Flynn’s back, though it was the patrons who answered with a happy cheer. The music started up again, and with it some of the livelier activities and loud chatter that always accompanied them.

“And a round for everyone.” Shaw was beside him suddenly, leaning against the counter as Flynn was doing. “Something from the top shelf. On my tab.” That earned him more than one happy slap on the back, and resounding praise from the rest of the tavern’s patrons.

“You have a tab?” Flynn asked. He still couldn’t bring himself to look directly at Shaw.

“I’ve had one since the day we sailed into port. You never know who might have information. One or two drinks can go a long way.”

_Ply their secrets with alcohol,_ Flynn thought darkly. Well, it was a sound strategy, wasn’t it? He’d used a pint or two to loosen lips in his time. Not quite the way it had happened tonight, however.

In minutes it seemed as though all the talk of Shaw’s fifth task had been forgotten. Truth was, Flynn couldn’t say he was sorry to see it end. Maybe it was the drink, and maybe it was the way his heart was still pounding in his chest, ringing in his ears. He hadn’t really known what he might have put forth for the last task, anyhow. He never thought Shaw would kiss him. That was meant to be the rogue wave. Instead it had pulled Flynn under like a riptide.

He felt a hand on his wrist. Shaw was drawing him away from the bar. Flynn looked around, but no one was paying them any mind. “Number five,” Shaw muttered, pulling Flynn toward the stairs. He had his leather armor in his other hand, and the long laces were dragging across the scuffed, uneven floorboards.

“I’m meant to be the one challenging you, Master Shaw,” Flynn objected weakly.

Shaw paused on the first landing. “Then do it.”

The tavern had a few rooms, nothing much to speak of, and certainly nothing like the Snug Harbor. The rooms here were more often used by the tavern’s regulars, too drunk to stumble home, too likely to tip over the wall and into the sea. Not good business to let your customers drown. It cost a bit of gold for everyone else, but that was likely nothing to a man like Shaw, who no doubt had the riches of Stormwind at his disposal. He must have slipped the barkeep a few coins while Flynn wasn’t looking. Or maybe he’d put _that_ on his tab, too.

“Ask,” Shaw insisted. His bottle-green eyes were dark, too intense to ignore on that cramped landing. His fingers flexed on Flynn’s wrist. “The last task.”

Flynn swallowed. He hadn’t ever thought he would get this far. It was just like the vault in Dazar’alor; he’d been certain _something_ would stop them, bring them up short of their goal. And then nothing had, and he’d found himself here. Sitting next to a hero in desperate need of a good night’s rest. Somehow in the arms of a man who would just as soon put a knife in his back. Or so he’d thought only a few hours ago. Success was sometimes as baffling to him as failure.

Well, nothing for it, he supposed. He hadn’t made it to where he was by second-guessing his good fortune, or avoiding opportunities when they sailed his way.

“Go to bed with me,” he heard himself say.

If possible, Shaw’s eyes darkened further. Or maybe it was only a trick of the shadows. He tugged Flynn up the stairs, until the sounds of the celebration below were drowned in the silence of the short, empty hall. He saw Shaw quickly scan the doors around them, and then he was striding forward, Flynn well in hand behind him, unresisting, unbelieving. Surely it wasn’t this easy?

“Shaw—”

Shaw whirled him around, through the door, and for a few confusing seconds Flynn felt like they were dancing again. He backed Flynn into a wall and pressed his own body against him, pinning him there, his one hand still holding Flynn’s wrist. His mouth was on Flynn’s neck like a man possessed, and his teeth… Flynn couldn’t stop himself from shutting his eyes and groaning at the little bites the spymaster trailed along his neck, up to his ear. His own hands found their way back to Shaw’s sides. He let them slide down to his hips, just above his belt, thumbs tracing the deep V of the muscles there.

“Are you sure?” he found himself asking. What a _stupid_ question. If Shaw wasn’t sure, he’d only reminded him of it, and now he was going to miss out on what promised to be some fairly spectacular sex. Based on the tongue currently tracing the shape of his ear, anyway. He just couldn’t help himself. “Because if you’re not…”

“Shut _up_, Fairwind,” came Shaw’s breathy reply.

“You’ve got the wrong man for that, mate,” Flynn said with a smirk. He followed the faint curve of Shaw’s belly until he found the front of his belt. While Shaw’s fingers slid through his hair and grasped at his shirt, Flynn’s worked the catch of the belt and slipped it free from the spymaster’s waist.

He felt Shaw smile against his skin. “Pickpocket.”

“If only you knew.”

Shaw’s snort said all he needed to know about that subject. Of course he’d looked into it. Hardly surprising, given the nature of their earlier mission. Trusting his life to any freebooter who wandered their way with a quick smile and a good word from the friend of a friend wasn’t how a man like Shaw kept his skin clear of scars.

He really _liked_ touching his smooth skin, too.

“How d’you want to do this?” he asked quickly, just as Shaw’s lips captured his own in another spectacularly passionate kiss.

Shaw drew back, letting his teeth linger on Flynn’s lower lip. “On the bed, ideally.”

“You Stormwind boys have no sense of adventure.”

“Earlier it was fun I was lacking. Now it’s adventure. Doesn’t anything please you?”

Flynn pushed off from the wall and started walking Shaw backwards toward the bed. “Ask me again in the morning,” he said.

They fell onto the bed together, and Flynn reached for the ties of his own trousers while Shaw, who had somehow managed to end up on top—no surprise there—struggled to free himself of his remaining armor. When he finally managed it he all but lunged for Flynn’s neck again, making the process of stripping of a great deal more difficult than it had to be. Now Shaw was naked, and Flynn was hurrying to catch up. His efforts weren’t helped by the man straddling his thighs, either; Shaw had taken himself in hand, stroking lightly as he watched Flynn through dark, half-lidded eyes. The blush that had been so faint on his cheeks before had spread to his ears, his neck, his chest… Light, but he was something to look at.

“Don’t suppose you care to help?” Flynn suggested.

Shaw frowned down at him, but promptly slid from his lap onto the floor. When Flynn propped himself up on his elbows to look, he found the spymaster kneeling between his legs, deft fingers working at the knot of leather separating Flynn’s cock from all the many things it wanted to do.

“Disabling Zandalari traps and untying a drunk man’s pants. Is there anything you can’t do, Spymaster Shaw?”

“Keep talking and my answer will be you.”

Flynn fell back to the bed with a giggle. He was still a bit tipsy, he realized. Shaw seemed fine, but that simply couldn’t be; no one was that perfect. So if they were both a little drunk, it was alright. No one needed to feel awkward about it in the morning. Assuming he made it to morning. “I’m not going to last much longer if you don’t—_oh!_” Flynn exclaimed. He threw his head back and arched his neck as Shaw pulled his trousers open and swallowed his cock all at once. “Oh, L—Light—”

Shaw pulled off with an obscenely wet sound and a long lick that sent a shiver down Flynn’s spine. He smirked. “I wouldn’t invoke the Light here, Fairwind. Who knows what’ll happen.”

“I’ll let it take me, that’s what. Don’t—” He wanted to say _don’t stop_, but it swiftly became pointless when Shaw’s hot mouth descended once more, and his truly wicked tongue resumed its work torturing Flynn for every terrible deed he’d ever done.

But just like that it was gone again. Flynn heard himself whimper, but he couldn’t find it in him to feel embarrassed. No one would be after even a few seconds of the hot, wet bliss inside that man’s mouth. He felt the bed shift, and looked up to find Shaw kneeling above him again. Only this time he had something in his hand. A small vial.

Shaw looked between the vial and Flynn’s curious expression. “Lock picking,” he said. As though that was supposed to be some sort of explanation.

“I’ll assume you know what you’re doing, then,” Flynn replied.

“You should always assume I know what I’m doing.”

Flynn was going to say something, he really was, but the shock of watching Mathias Shaw upend the viscous contents of some unknown vial onto his fingers and _reach behind himself_ was simply too much for his addled mind to handle. He stared, slack-jawed and utterly speechless, as Shaw worked himself open on his own fingers, one hand flat on Flynn’s stomach, the other moving behind him too rhythmically to mistake his intentions. Like Flynn, his mouth had fallen open, and he panted almost too silently to be heard. Flynn found himself desperate for every noise, every sight. He wanted to see the creases at the corners of the spymaster’s eyes as he squeezed them shut from his own touch.

Flynn’s hands slid along Shaw’s thighs. He let his nails scrape the hair from his knees all the way up to his groin. Shaw made a strangled sound. His cock twitched and he trembled. For a moment that seemed to last forever, Flynn truly thought he could be content simply watching Shaw shudder and gasp above him. He was sure he didn’t need anything else.

His cock begged to differ, however. Shaw groaned, and it throbbed painfully.

“Shaw… let’s, yeah?” Flynn urged. He didn’t have much left in him to be more eloquent than that. He reached for Shaw’s hips, trying to angle him, trying to find some relief for himself.

Shaw, clever man that he was, took the hint. He reached for Flynn’s cock and shifted himself into position. With a burst of air from his lungs he sank down far enough to take the head, then a little more only a moment after that. With every inch he shivered a little more, until he was shuddering and gasping, his stomach clenching with each breath. He didn’t stop until he was fully seated, and by that time his own cock was flushed a deep red and leaking across Flynn’s belly.

Flynn couldn’t find the words to speak. Not something he’d ever had much cause to deal with, in his life. His chest was heaving, and inside Shaw his cock felt like it had been enclosed in tight, molten heat. He wondered if Shaw could feel the way he throbbed and twitched, or how much he wanted to lift the spymaster by his surprisingly slender hips and drag him back down again. How animalistic his need to take the man was. How it shocked even him. He settled for silently watching, waiting for Shaw to move, feeling as though he might fly apart at any second.

But when he finally did… Flynn caught a sound in his throat before it could escape, and he bit his lower lip for good measure. Shaw was riding him, rocking in place with both hands curled into fists atop Flynn’s stomach. He had his eyes closed, his head thrown back, and he was rolling his hips in a way that only reminded Flynn he’d had years to learn how to move his body in ways that put others to shame.

“Faster,” he prompted, tugging on Shaw’s hips.

Shaw obliged. He snapped his hips, sending a shock of pleasure through Flynn’s body that seemed to ricochet up the center of his spine and back down again. He did it a few more times and Flynn saw stars. Or maybe it _was_ the Light, come to bear him away.

“Come on, Captain Fairwind,” Shaw panted. “You can do more than just lie there, can’t you?”

“Big words from a man currently sitting o—_ooh_...” Flynn groaned as Shaw lifted himself up just enough to bear down again. “Oh, do that,” he said, “definitely do that. Lots.”

It didn’t bother him that he was still wearing all of his clothes, but he distantly thought he might have liked to be as naked as Shaw; to feel the spymaster’s skin against his own. Maybe roll him over, and thrust into him as their bodies slid together, sweat mingling between them. But there was also something about having the man atop him in not a scrap of clothing or armor, writhing to the needy thrum of his own pleasure, too desperate for it to have bothered undressing Flynn or waiting for him to do it himself.

He lifted himself off the bed enough to reach out and wrap a hand around Shaw’s neck, drawing him back down to the bed. At that angle it was impossible for Shaw to do much more than wiggle his hips and squeeze him, but even that was enough to drive Flynn wild. He pulled the spymaster into a kiss and used the distraction to shift his boots up onto the edge of the bed. When he had the leverage he grasped Shaw’s hips and lifted him up, dragging him back down onto his cock again as he thrust up into that spectacular heat. Shaw let go of his lips and buried his face in Flynn’s neck. He was groaning, the sound catching in his throat whenever Flynn drove into him again. His fingers clawed at the sheets.

“Like that, do you?” Flynn teased. “Careful what you wish for, Spymaster.”

Shaw’s only answer was a drawn-out sound that ended in the curl of a whine. Flynn felt a spike of arousal in his gut, deep and heady, pushing him that much closer to losing control. He was certain he could last a bit longer, though. Somehow he would make it last. After only just revealing this man who had been concealed beneath the armor, finally having him, he had no intention of letting him go.

But the best laid plans being what they were…

Shaw’s thighs suddenly gripped him hard, and his body went taut in Flynn’s hands. He clenched tight, and any hope of lasting evaporated with that impossibly snug squeeze. Flynn shouted a curse and dug his fingers into Shaw’s hips. He felt the warmth of the spymaster’s come on his stomach, sliding down his skin onto his clothes. He was too far gone to care. He’d made Mathias Shaw come on his cock and frankly the lord admiral could have knocked on his door at that moment and he wouldn’t have stopped to see what she wanted.

Shaw sat up, looking boneless, his eyes drooping heavily. He let Flynn move him, let him bounce him on his lap, still pushing up from the bed with each thrust to feel that sweet warmth. _So close,_ he thought, and only a moment later he realized that he was saying it out loud, too.

Shaw fell onto his hands over him. He was propped up, watching Flynn, those green eyes still so damned intense even when they were seconds from closing. Even when all he could do was let his mouth hang open and pant as Flynn drove his cock up into him over and over again.

He’d wanted this for far longer than he was willing to admit. Any way he could get it, really. He had wanted Mathias Shaw from the moment he’d set eyes on him.

Flynn came with a curse, pulling Shaw down onto him and holding him there while he gave him everything. He felt his cock pulsing, watched Shaw’s eyes as they seemed to glaze over, and let out a heavy sigh when the spymaster finally collapsed atop his chest. He didn’t seem to mind the mess between them. Flynn didn’t much care, himself.

“You reckon anyone noticed us sneaking away up here?” he asked after some time had passed.

Shaw laughed. Really, he only grunted and shifted slightly against Flynn, but it was clearly a laugh. “Doubt they’ll even remember,” he said.

That much was probably true. Not that Flynn was ashamed of what they’d done. On the contrary, he sort of hoped _someone_ might recall his skilled seduction of the Alliance’s finest spy.

Out of nowhere, Shaw said, “I know how to have fun.”

Well, Flynn couldn’t argue with that anymore, could he? He also had no intention of conceding anything, either. He only hummed, and gingerly shifted them both so that he could finally free himself from the rest of his clothing. It was in a truly sorry state by that point. “Quite a mess you made, Spymaster.”

Shaw startled Flynn to silence again when he stretched his long limbs and promptly curled up in the center of the bed. Like one of the cats in the harbor. “Sounds like your problem, Captain,” he muttered. One green eye peeked open. He smirked.

Flynn shook his head and pulled his shirt over his head. He wriggled out of his pants and kicked his boots across the room. All the rest landed in a heap beside the bed. When he was entirely naked, he flopped down next to Shaw and inched as close as he could, facing the spymaster, who had closed his eyes again. “Listen,” he said, “I’ve got something to ask you.”

With a faint but weary frown, Shaw opened his eyes and looked up at Flynn. “Yes?” There was a hint of uncertainty there, as though he had been dreading some specific question, and now that fear was coming true.

“You can do all _that_, but you can’t dance?”

Shaw watched him. His frown never wavered.

Finally he drew in a deep breath and sighed. “Go to sleep, Fairwind.”

**Author's Note:**

> Flynn: I am totally seducing this spy.  
Shaw: I am _actually_ seducing this pirate.


End file.
